Human Failings
by Avonlea Inspirations
Summary: Each Pevensie sibling has a persistent flaw. Each Pevensie sibling has their own personal demon.


**AN:** First fanfic. It's half-baked, so I shall probably have to edit it in the future. All reviews welcome, even flames, as I probably deserve it. Set post LWW, pre PC.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. It all belongs to a pretty cool genius of a man. What a pity he's dead.

* * *

Sometimes, Lucy gets jealous.

...

"Susan, my, aren't we the fine young lady?" says fat, old Great-Aunt Doris one grey afternoon. She takes the cup Mrs. Pevensie offers her, and slurps it... loudly.

"Thank-you, Aunt Doris." is the dainty reply.

Simper, smile. Pinky out, ankles crossed.

Lucy, in her corner, glares at her aunt from the corner of her eye, and nibbles absently at her biscuit. It tastes stale, today.

"I'm sure you've got plenty o' admirers, eh, Susan?" leers Aunt Doris, looking for all the world like a predatory spider.

"Oh," says Susan, with a small, lady-like shrug, "a few."

Edmund, who is sitting opposite from Lucy, under his mother's watchful eye, rolls his eyes for Lucy's benefit.

Lucy snorts into her milk, earning her a reproachful glance from her mother.

"I remember when I was young," continues Aunt Doris, leaning back in her chair. The poor object creaks under her weight, causing Mrs. Pevensie to cringe. "I was the prettiest girl in my class --"

Peter, in a moment of madness, hiccups with laughter from the opposite side of the room. Three pairs of outraged eyes are turned in his direction. The Magnificent king (who isn't feeling quite so magnificent) slouches back down into his chair and buries his nose in a book.

"I was the prettiest girl in my class," repeats Aunt Doris, huffing into her tea, "and all the lads were simply crazy about me, Susan dear."

"I'm sure you were very attractive," says Susan politely.

"Aye," agrees Aunt Doris, with a far away look in her green eyes, "I was something to look at." She snaps from her reverie and pounces (figuratively) upon Susan. "Tell me, dear," she probes, clasping her fat hands together and leaning forward, "Who are your admirers?"

"She'll want their name, rank, and serial number, I bet," whispers Edmund to Lucy, taking the opportunity to lean over the tea table. "Isn't she a crazy old --"

"Edmund," says Mrs. Pevensie sternly, her eyes fixed forward and her lips pursed. "That's enough."

Edmund smirks good-naturedly and complies, shooting Lucy a wink as he settles back into a cushion.

"Oh," says Susan, sadly, taking up the thread of the conversation with practised ease, "you wouldn't know them."

Her tone is mournful and pensive, and the hand grasping her tea cup tightens. The knuckles grow white and she breathes in sharply, willing away memories of a time that is gone. That can never be again.

"Oh," says Aunt Doris, her face resembling a Cheshire cat's, "you never know, dear. Why don't you tell me anyway. Why don't you tell me _everything_?

There is a warning flash in Peter's eyes as he glances up from his book, taking in his sister's tensed form and Aunt's Doris' unwitting tongue, that is now probing and teasing mercilessly. She is hoping for some lurid tale of heart-break and passion to fall from her young niece's lips. Susan's eyes are dull and lifeless.

_'Not the most perceptive woman,'_ Peter thinks grimly.

With a well-practiced, fluid ease, he glides from his armchair and secures a seat, securely tucked between Aunt Doris' ample bulk, and his sister's slight figure.

"So," he says, successfully drawing the conversation to himself, "what's the...er... weather like where you live, Aunt? Not a particularly inspired question, as Aunt Dorris lives quite close. Nevertheless, he feels quite proud of himself, really, for he has never been known as a very good conversationalist. That is Edmund's department.

"Eh, what's that?" Aunt Doris blinks slowly and turns her full attention upon her nephew. "Oh, the weather. It's wet, my dear, very wet."

"Oh," is Peter's intelligent reply.

Susan visibly relaxes and shoots a grateful glance to the back of Peter's head, which is all she can see at the moment. She didn't feel quite ready to face Aunt Doris' prying questions, and is thankful for the distraction. Placing her half-full cup back on to the table, she folds her hands in her lap, closes her eyes, and tries to stop thinking of a certain winter's evening in a land best left to myth and fairy tales.

Lucy watches her sister closely, her own brow furrowed in thought. True, she dislikes it when Susan is considered the "pretty" one of the family, and when old members of the family shower her with attention. Now, however, she suddenly comes to the conclusion that, perhaps, Susan does not want the attention. Maybe she finds it a bother.

Susan opens her eyes a bit and, seeing Lucy's piercing glance, gives her a sweet and simple smile. Lucy returns the smile, suddenly feeling warm and at ease.

Maybe, just maybe, Lucy decides, there is nothing to be jealous about, after all.


End file.
